


summer fling, don't mean a thing

by gaialux



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Pre-Series, Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-30
Updated: 2013-08-30
Packaged: 2017-12-25 03:52:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/948309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaialux/pseuds/gaialux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sam's sixteen, he and Dean are sent on their first hunt together without Dad. This is what happens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	summer fling, don't mean a thing

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the spn_bigpretzel summer vacation reverse mini bang. I chose some incredible artwork by xsnappapplex and ran with it to here. Many, many thanks to my beta blackrabbit42 for all the help and for putting up with me through my computer's hissy fits. Of course I also want to give a huge thank you to everyone at the community - this is my first contribution and I hope you enjoy :).
> 
> ((WARNINGS FOUND AT BOTTOM A/N - CONTAIN [minor] SPOILERS FOR THE FIC))
> 
> Supernatural does not belong to me. This piece of fiction was written for entertainment purposes only, no profit is gained.

The summer after Sam turns sixteen, Dad sends him and Dean on their first hunt without him. Sam overhears it all from the other side of a paper-thin wall in the town-house they've been renting in Red Oak, Texas for the past two weeks.  
  
Sam can count the places they've rented in his life on one hand, those they've stayed at for more than a week on a single finger. He knew something big was coming when Dad paid the landlord for the second time.  
  
He only catches snippets of their conversation. Hears "poltergeist" and "beach" and "missing persons". Dean walks out soon after the last two words and ruffles Sam's hair like he knows Sam's been standing out there the entire time. Sam tries for a half-hearted punch which Dean has no difficulty dodging.  
  
"Might be Sasquatch now, but we gotta work on your technique." Dean bounces on his feet, spars the air, and then walks down the hallway to the room they've been sharing.  
  
Sam stays at the wall a little longer, considering. He considers asking Dad, considers calling Uncle Bobby 'cause he seems to know about all their hunts lately, and then finally mutters “screw it” about both options and goes after Dean.  
  
"Pack your crap, Sammy," Dean says almost as soon as the door's open.  
  
"Where we going?" It seems that growing taller also takes away his innocent act, because Dean rolls his eyes and throws a duffle bag at Sam.  
  
"Know you heard me and Dad," he says, "We're goin' to California, got a ghost to hunt."  
  
"How do you know?"  
  
Dean crosses the room and reaches under his pillow, pulling out a pile of paper, all doggy-eared and scrunched at the corners, and handing it over to Sam. "These."  
  
"Why'd you keep this from me?" He flicks through the sheets, most of it a scrawl of Dad, Dean, and maybe some Bobby handwriting thrown in.  
  
He looks up to see Dean shrug. "Wasn't sure you'd be coming on this hunt with me."  
  
"There's  _heaps_  of hunts I stay behind on, you don't hide those from me," Sam insists. He leafs through the papers again, skimming sentences that don't make much sense, testimonies from supposed witnesses that seem sloppy at best. "These aren't even  _thorough_ , you sure there's a ghost?"  
  
Dean ignores the question. "Well, thought this might be a nice surprise, first hunt brother."  
  
He stares at Dean. "This is a really fucked up present."  
  
Dean just grins.  
  
::  
  
Dad leaves early the next morning in a truck he's rented, leaving the impala for Dean to drive. "Look after her," he says, stern, as he hands Dean the keys. Sam doesn't know why he bothered - Dean wouldn't put anything in front of that car.  
  
"Should only take you boys a couple of days, I'll call you." Dad seems to hesitate then. Looks from Sam to Dean and back again. "Straightforward hunt. Dean you've got all the reports?" He nods. "You have any problems, bail out. No need to play hero." He looks at Dean for the last part.  
  
"We'll be fine," Dean presses. “You be careful with those demons."  
  
"Yeah, be careful," Sam echoes.  
  
Dad's found omens up in Massachusetts, too many to just be one possession. Ghosts they can deal with - salt and burn and iron - but Sam's only seen two demons in his life and they're more terrifying than a spirit could ever be.  
  
"I'll be fine, boys," John says, "I'll call you once I get there."  
  
Then that's it, he gets in the truck and Sam watches it become a speck in the distant, dirt-clogged air. Dean thumps Sam on the back. "Let's get goin'."  
  
::  
  
They drive for hours, Sam flitting in and out of sleep with his legs tangled, first under the seat and then against the dash, and an uncomfortable crick in his neck. Last long road trip they took without a motel break happened before Sam started growing, back when he was small enough to curl up in the passenger seat without any trouble.  
  
"Sleep in the back," Dean told him, but Sam shook his head and insisted he was fine right where he was.  
  
Sam had to make Dean stop after the sun was gone and they were driving down a backwater road with half the streetlights busted. He didn't put up much of a fight, so Sam figured it was probably a good thing.  
  
Unlike Sam in a mess of limbs with intent to curl up, Dean has no trouble maneuvering himself to fit  _with_  the impala and he lies back, hands still on the wheel, and his steady breathing that soon follows tells Sam that Dean's more accustomed to these long drives than Sam is.  
  
While Dean sleeps, Sam goes through the notes again with a flashlight wedged under his arm. They're the least comprehensive he's ever seen, more like bullet points of speculation than anything solid; a woman dies, kids around the beach go missing. Nobody's spoken to the police, nobody's spoken to the families. All testimonies coming from college kids over the past twelve months.  
  
Forgetting how long they've been driving and how much Dean probably needs the sleep, Sam nudges him awake.  
  
“What're you doing?” Dean groans, he sits up and his joints pop.  
  
He waves the paper in front of Dean. “Who put together this case?”  
  
“Me,” he says and swipes it out of Sam's hands. “And Dad helped.”  
  
“In future, leave  _me_ with research, okay?”  
  
“Shut up,” Dean says and twists the keys in the car's ignition.  
  
::  
  
It’s dark and it’s the smell that hits Sam first.  
  
Not like rock salt, not even like the salt of deep fried chips in dingy diners, this salt is clear and refreshing and carries right into the closed windows of the impala. Sam winds them down without hesitation, face halfway out the window and Dean makes some comment under his breath that no canines are allowed in his vehicle. Sam grins, no Dean insult is going to get him down now that he's at the  _beach_  for the first time...ever.  
  
Seemed as though supernatural creatures preferred towns and deserts to salt water and sand.  
  
“So where's the house?” Sam asks, turning back to the car only enough to avoid his voice getting carried away in the slicing wind.  
  
Dean rummages around in his pocket and pulls out a piece of crumbled paper. He unfolds it, squints at his own writing. “12 Arecaceae Street. Weird name.”  
  
Sam leans back on his seat and snorts. “It's inspired.”  
  
“What?”  
  
Sam looks at his brother. “Arecaceae is a palm tree.”  
  
Dean gives him an incredulous look and Sam just rolls his eyes.  
  
They move through the small streets, enough lights to make out the small beach huts of varying colours, the fish and chip shop, beachwear for sale, and small storefronts with no sign he can read. Dean seems to know where he's going, no hesitation in his wheel shifts, and at the next turn Sam can see the beach.  
  
Well, he can see the people on it at least. Illuminated with glowsticks and a huge bonfire, and he can hear the water splashing, the people laughing. He supposes their graduated seniors or college kids, living it up before classes pull them back to reality. His face goes back out the window, taking it all in.  
  
“Should finish this hunt quick,” Dean says. “Spend some time on the beach.”  
  
“You just wanna find a hookup,” Sam says.  
  
Dean's grinning when he looks over. “Know me too well, Sammy.”  
  
Sam shifts in his seat and his eyes look at Dean for a moment. When Dean catches his gaze, he looks away quickly. “You know where this place is?”  
  
“I read a map.”  
  
“Are you sure there’s even a case here?”  
  
Dean nods. “We’ve gone on less. Plus, it’s a perfect poltergeist setup, man: old woman – Elinor Smith – supposedly offs herself, used to report the kids, and now they go missing in her house?”  
  
“ _Supposedly_  ,” Sam presses. “Don’t you think we should question the police first?”  
  
“When is it  _ever_ my method to ask questions first, shoot later?”  
  
Sam looks at him for a while longer before eventually letting out a sigh and slumping back in his seat. They drive in silence.  
  
Another turn and Sam can no longer see the people on the beach, but their laughter lingers, floating through the car. They're on an even darker street now and Sam to strains to see the houses that turn into nothing more than black shadows.  
  
He doesn't know how Dean manages to remember from a 2D picture in a place they've never been before. But he does because, within a few minutes, he's pulling up and they're stepping out.  
  
Dean shushes him when the impala squeaks. At first Sam listens to him, taking light steps over the pavement, but it doesn’t take long for him to realizse that there’s no point. They can still hear noises from the beach, the deep pounding music and people laughing and squealing. If people are staying here, they've learnt to block out noise.  
  
Sam tells Dean this, but Dean just tells him to shut up and proceeds to pick the lock of the pink and blue beach cottage.  
  
"Do you think we should --?" Sam can't see how breaking into this house - which those crummy research notes say is  _haunted_  - could ever be a good idea.  
  
Dean sends him a look and his hands don't stop or slow. The door opens without him even watching, squeaks a little as it swings on its hinges.  
  
They step inside, onto plush carpet that dips under Sam’s feet.  
  
“Why put carpet in a beach house?” Dean hisses under his breath, and Sam elbows him to make him shut up.  
  
For all they know someone could be here right now; Sam couldn’t even find a single scrap of writing saying the house belonged to the woman – Elinor – and to him it just seemed like Dean and Dad were clutching at thin straws.  
  
Sam puts his flashlight back on and follows Dean as they slide over the house. It’s small, smaller on the inside than the outside, and they walk from room to room with no boxes flying or cold spots or anything that could potentially tell them it’s a haunting. Not that Sam was expecting anything, he’s had a hard time being convinced this is a haunting from the start.  
  
When they’ve circled the house and end up back in the living room, Dean collapses into a huge, floral armchair and throws dust into the air. Sam watches it dance in the light from the flashlight. “Well, that turned up nothing.”  
  
Sam leans against the kitchen counter, wary of testing the old, forgotten furniture. “What were you even looking for?”  
  
Sam’s spent most hunts in his life waiting in the car while Dad and Dean did all the hands-on work. There’s a whole lot of nothing Sam knows about the family business, and it’s finally starting to catch up with him.  
  
Dean shrugs. “Anything outta place – or the people, they’re missing, yeah?”  
  
“According to your notes.”  
  
“Which means  _they’re missing_.” Dean seems very definite on this point. “Which means your police plan seems like our next point of attack.” This he doesn’t seem so definite about.  
  
Sam pushes off the counter and walks into the living room, dropping onto the armrest next to Dean. “We could always talk to the college guys?” he suggests.  
  
As much as police seem the more logical step, he’s not all that interested in finding out how they’re going to pull off being FBI agents at age sixteen and twenty. He seriously starts questioning how much thought Dad put into this hunt.  
  
Dean sighs, breath hitting Sam’s bare arms. “Yeah, alright. We can’t do that ‘til morning, so book a room? I saw a motel six back on the interstate.”  
  
“Mmm.” Seems a good idea as any. Sam already knows they won’t be staying here long, Dad said they’d be meeting up in three days. Sam’s not about to get his summer holiday, he  _knows_ that.  
  
Sam stands and that’s when he feels it, a small smile coming to his face as he reaches into his pocket.  
  
“Hey, is that --?” Dean shoots up from the chair. “You bastard! I thought I lost it.”  
  
Sam laughs and holds the EMF Meter above Dean’s grasp. “It was  _right_ at the back of the trunk, I didn’t think you cared about it.”  
  
“So you  _took it_?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
He eventually relents and lets Dean take the meter from his hand. He switches it on, and there’s no buzzing to fill the room.  
  
“Coulda cost me my life, Sammy,” he says, but there’s a smile on his face now and Sam doesn’t think the words mean much. He holds the EMF meter up, slowly walking first throughout this room, into the kitchen, and then disappears into the corridor. He’s back less than a minute later. “Nothing.”  
  
“You sure you checked thorough?” Sam asks, the house was small but not _that_ small – especially if it was people’s lives they were talking about.  
  
“I know how to do my job, Sammy. He sounds annoyed. “C’mon, we’ll talk to locals in the morning.”  
  
::  
  
“I don’t...” The girl was stammering as Dean went from his naturally lazy swagger into the rigid, all business mode Sam had seen less than a dozen times in his life. It’s the mode he puts on for the most serious of hunts, the one when he’s interviewing people side-by-side with Dad. “My boyfriend...he...some of our friends...well...”  
  
“What?” Dean asks, his voice is now merged with annoyance, tensed angry. Sam thinks he already knows what’s coming, and he’s not sure how he feels about it.  
  
The girl sighs and flicks a hand through her long, brown hair. “Look, it’s not real, okay? That lady – Elinor – she’s real, yeah. She rents a cabin here every spring, but nobody’s dying or nothing. We just thought...I dunno...it’d be fun?”  
  
“So what about the reports? The missing people?”  
  
 _Cool it, Dean._ They’ve got a cover of just kids at the beach, not investigators or reporters, just people hanging out, enjoying the sun, yuppies that fear being abducted – that’s all. Sam’s just stumped the girl hasn’t figured something’s up yet. Dean sounds ten years beyond his age. Sam makes out he’s interested in the nearby volleyball game.  
  
The girl shrugs. Once enthralled with Dean she now just looks bored and gazes over his shoulder before answering. “Small town, news is news.” Then her eyes are back on him, hard. “Look, I don’t have to answer to you – it’s summer break, people do lots of stupid crap. Nobody’s been hurt. Just drop it, okay?” With that, she brushes past him and Sam follows her with his eyes as she bounds over to a big group of people.  
  
Dean pivots to face Sam, scowl on his face. "Well that got us nowhere.”  
  
“Are you gonna call Dad?” Sam asks, wanting to bite back the words as soon as they’re out of his mouth.  
  
Dean’s face changes, softens maybe. “I guess, if you want, we could meet up with him on that demon thing or whatever...”  
  
He pulls out his cellphone, the one Dad got for his birthday and made Sam _know_ it’d mean something more, something like hunting, and he just hoped it wouldn’t lead to things turning out like when he was younger – back when Sam was left with Uncle Bobby or Past Jim or old Mrs. Jacobs, their neighbour in the house they rented for two months. The longest ever.  
  
“No—" Sam starts, same as before he thinks he shouldn’t have said it, but can’t seem to help himself from talking. “I’ve never been to the beach, can’t we just...stay?”  
  
Dean’s face doesn’t change, but his hand moves, lowers, and the cellphone is shoved back into his pocket. “Yeah, why not?”  
  
::  
  
When Dean gets it in his head that they're doing something, he goes all out - and Sam tends to get dragged along. The same night they've decided to stay they're going to a party down by the beach, filled with college kids, glowsticks, and wine coolers.  
  
Dean buys them more alcohol courtesy of Elliot Tucker, explaining "the way to a twenty-somethin's heart is through her liver", and they trek down to the beach after the sun's far fallen and the deep pound of music starts up.  
  
Dean's natural here, he knows just where to go. Of course Sam could've guessed that even before - straight to the biggest group of girls dressed in the skimpiest string bikinis Sam's ever seen. That's his brother in a nutshell, and Sam's trying really hard to stop scowling at the knowledge.  
  
Sam, he's more awkward. Wanders around aimlessly and starts re-thinking what he thought staying at the beach would actually give him. It's not like Dean's deliberately being a dick or anything, he does walk past and hand Sam beers, whispers "you're in, Sammy" when he just so happens to be walking in a five mile radius of any girl, and catches his eye across the beach. Yeah, Dean cares, but Sam's still the awkward sixteen year old amongst people eighteen plus.  
  
Plus, he's Sam. A lot of soul-searching and he's finally started to realizse what that means: It means you want something, you get it, then it's never as good as it turned out to be. Like the magic kit, the science kit, the first chance to drive the impala where Dean yelled at you every time you hit a branch.  
  
It's no different at the beach, and Sam wanders from being an awkward, part-way member of a group to finding Dean chatting up a pretty girl against a rock face. He's watching Sam from the corner of his eye even when he keeps talking, and Sam has no desire to hear what he's saying.  
  
"Hey, uh, I'm heading back to the motel," he calls when he figures the distance is close enough to hear, even with the background music, playful screams of people, and crashing waves.  
  
"Why?" Dean's either amused or confused, two emotions Sam didn't know were possible to show at the same time. Then again, Dean's good at throwing oxymorons into everything.  
  
Before Sam can come up with something Dean will accept, the girl turns and her face breaks into a grin. "This is your brother? He's so cute." She says it likes he's six, not sixteen, but Sam still feels heat gather in his cheeks.  
  
He only looks up to see Dean smirk and raise a beer to his lips. "Good genetic material right there." The speech is more slurred than it should be, and Sam can see Dean swaying slightly if he squints. So he's drunk, go figure, but Sam's also feeling fuzzy so he keeps his mouth shut about that.  
  
"Dean, uh," Sam kicks at the sand, wishes he didn't look so pathetic. "Can I have the keys?"  
  
When there's no response he raises his eyes again to see Dean shaking his head, that smirk not missing a beat. "Nuh-uh, we stay 'n' mingle a bit, Sammy. G'back soon, 'kay?"  
  
Sam sighs, considers yelling at him but knows it's not gonna do much. Dean's already back and enthralled with the girl, so Sam starts a slow walk along the beach. He'd even call it melancholy, if he were being all melodramatic and shit, which, in all honesty, seems to be where this is headed.  
  
It's only when he's stumbling along the beach that Sam realizes he can't handle his booze. He had maybe six beers...oh, and that swig of whiskey from Dean's flask just before they came out here, and those fruity shots Dean insisted he take so as to better mingle with the locals.  
  
Sam doesn't drink, but tonight he's totally plastered.  
  
He stumbles out to the edge of the water, away from all the music and noise, dipping his toes into the icy froth bubbling over the sand. He drops to his ass in the cold, clammy sand that has no problem soaking through his board shorts in three seconds flat.  
  
Here, it's peaceful. Just the sound of waves lapping over his toes, and faint music wavering in the background. Yeah, peaceful, but he's wired. Ready to bounce of walls, or run the whole beach, or just jump into the water and swim until he can't anymore.  
  
"Antisocial, aren't you?"  
  
He doesn't even react to Dean's voice. Expected it even. He just drops his head back and looks at upside-down Dean. In boots and jeans at the seaside. So very Dean. When his eyes trail up he's holding a beer, half finished. He wonders if Dean's as drunk as him.  
  
Sam scrambles to his feet then, launching himself in the general direction of Dean. He misjudges it wildly, feeling himself fall forward until Dean's hand shoots out and connects with his shoulder, holding him upright. Maybe his brother's not as drunk as he thought.  
  
"Easy, tiger." Dean grins and holds Sam upright, reaching up to hold his other shoulder. It's only then Sam realises he's actually swaying, beach in the distance wavering without sunlight. A look in Dean's eyes, though, tells him that his brother's just as smashed.  
  
"Thought you'd be talkin' t' that girl," he says and notices the slur in his voice. Not drunk enough to be completely out of it. Good sign, right?  
  
"So'd I," Dean says. He lets one hand drop but stays close, like Sam's about to keel over any minute. "But had t' come look for your emo ass."  
  
"Can look after myself." To prove his point, Sam wreaths himself from Dean's grasp and makes his way back on the beach. Turns back, kicks up some sand for good measure, and touches his fingertips to his nose. "Do I pass the sobriety test?"  
  
Dean's trailing after him. "Guess so." He practically leaps the last couple of steps to clear the distance between them, then strikes out his elbow, connecting with Sam's and forcing him off balance. It's like a slow motion scene before he eventually eats dirt.  
  
"Hey!" He gets out and rolls onto his back before Dean's on the ground, pining him down. He actually fucking squeaks at the pressure and tries to get himself out from under Dean, but it's a losing battle. Sam's taller, but he's still lanky. Dean's been working out, and Sam's long arms are no match for his brother's biceps. "Ge'off," he gasps out.  
  
"Not 'til you tell me why you gotta be such a cock block." Dean grins down at him, arms now on either side of Sam's shoulders. Like a human-cage to stop him from doing anything.  
  
"I didn' stop you from gettin' laid." He's still laughing and tries to push Dean off. He doesn't budge an inch. "Go fin' the girl. Don' care." He does, a lot, but never has to tell Dean.  
  
Dean moves closer until, even in the dark and through blurry vision, he can make out their green. Dean's breath is more bitter than the beer, but warmer than the sand. He stops laughing.  
  
"She's probably gone by now," he says, and his voice is more like slurred sound than formed words, but Sam gets what he's saying. "Hear that?"  
  
"What?" It's a whisper, and it's clear.  
  
"Nothin'." Dean smiles and cocks his head. "There's no music. Though' college kids knew how t' party."  
  
"S’probably late," Sam says quietly. Dean leans down to hear the words, and Sam really wishes he wouldn't do that. "Law restrictions and stuff." He says that louder, but Dean doesn't move away. His body's getting heavy now, elbows resting too hard on Sam's shoulders and his legs holding Sam's together. His jeans are hot on Sam's bare legs. "Maybe we should g'back to the motel?"  
  
Dean reaches a hand down and pokes below his rib. Sam squirms away in response, but he doesn't crack up. "Thought you wanted the beach?"  
  
"The sun," he corrects, and he doesn't know why.  
  
"Aren' I bright enough for you?”  
  
Yeah. Sam licks over his lips, dry. Dean's really heavy right now. "C'mon, man." He pushes a leg, hard, and it seems to catch Dean off-guard.  
  
He falls sideways, bringing Sam with him, and they're rolling across the sand, Dean in a snort of laughter that lets Sam find his own sense of humor. Blocks out the water, the cicadas, the soft and steady hum of cars somewhere far away. Dean's back to being a cage to Sam in hardly anytime.  
  
"Gotcha, Sammy," he says and there's a brilliant grin on his face, like it's some kind of amazing victory instead of a petty play-fight on the beach. Then Dean leans in closer, and his closed lips slide over Sam's.  
  
At first Sam has no idea that it's just happened. When his beer-sluggish brain clicks into gear he feels his eyes grow wide and, once Dean's moved back up, they find his. He can't read them.  
  
Something seems to click then, and they grow dark. "Sammy —" He pushes himself up, breaking the body contact between them, and the freezing ocean air hits Sam. Clears his mind, and he reaches up, tugs Dean back down, connects their mouths again.  
  
He wishes he were sober, he wants to know he can't forget this the next morning. The taste of Dean beer-coated and bitter, mixed with the salt in the air. How he's leaning into him, kiss becoming deeper, and Sam knows this shouldn't be happening but he won't stop.  
  
Dean's the one that has to break it, pulling away with ragged breathing and bruised lips. Sam doesn't stop him from getting up. Sam doesn't stop him from walking away.  
  
::  
  
Sam doesn't know how they managed to fall asleep on the sand instead of making their way back to the motel, but he wakes up to bright sunlight, screaming kids, and sand being kicked in his face. He rolls over before opening his eyes, starring up into the blinding light and groaning in response, hands covering his eyes. He tries to remember what happened last night, just how he's managed to wake up here in the middle of the beach, but all he can think is ouch because his head has started pounding.  
  
“Get up, Sam.”  
  
It’s with Dean’s voice and prodding foot to his ribs that pulls everything back together. Like, yeah, he did happen to kiss his brother last night and it sends a wave of nausea through him, pulling him to his feet and sending him lurching to a trashcan he’s never been so glad to see there.  
  
“Shouldn't mix drinks.” Dean comes up behind him and laughs.  
  
Sam's throat burns and, he didn't think it was possible, but beer tastes even worse on the way back up. A little girl runs past yelling "ew!" and that makes Dean laugh harder.  
  
When Sam's emptied his stomach to the point where it's dull and aching, he slides down to the sand and sits, throbbing head in hands. He hears Dean follow with a groan, sitting beside him.  
  
"Why aren't you hungover?" Sam moans.  
  
"Straight beer and a well-worn liver," he responds.  
  
Sam peaks out through a gap between his elbow and face. Dean's got a hand shading his face from the sun, so Sam knows his brother's not as peachy as he's making out to be.  
  
"Should go back to our room," Sam says. Even his arm isn't working as a sun block anymore. Only problem is he doesn't think he can make it back to the motel without retching again. His head won't stop pounding.  
  
"Alright, champ, c'mon." Dean tugs at Sam's shoulder and he rises, slowly, wave of nausea swallowing him and white light dancing in front of his eyes. "You okay?"  
  
Sam goes to nod, but figures that won't go over well with the worst-headache-ever, and mumbles out a "yeah" instead.  
  
He can't look at Dean the whole, slow way up the beach, and shrugs his hand from where it rests on his shoulder after a couple of steps. Only when their feet at one solid pavement does he sneak one glance. Dean's staring right at him and Sam goes back to glaring at the ground.  
  
When the painstaking motion of walking finally takes them back to the motel (silent the whole way, Sam even tries to keep himself from breathing), Sam beelines for the matchbox bathroom and slams the door closed behind him.  
  
He throws up again, and he's not sure if it's just from the hangover.  
  
::  
  
For two days, neither of them talk about it.  
  
Sam remembers everything by the next night, after sleeping off the effects of alcohol for the next twelve hours, showering again, and staring at himself in the mirror. Even after all the sleep his eyes are bloodshot, his face pale, and he doesn't think his hair will sit straight ever again. Not that it really matters, there’s the more pressing matter of his sudden memories.  
  
He kissed Dean.  
  
Correction: Dean kissed him. At first at least. He’s also fully aware that he was the one to pull Dean back down. But he’s trying to forget that part. Trying, and failing. He thought about it during his fits of sleeps, unaware of whether they were dreams or conscious memories, and every time he rolled away from the wall Dean was there, watching him. He’d roll back over straight away.  
  
Now it’s dark again. He’s still tired, no idea when that’ll wear off, but he has to face Dean sober and without the hangover. Not quite sure how he’s supposed to do that without blushing, averting his eyes, and wanting to hightail it outta dodge.  
  
He eventually does, though. Takes a breath and leaves the bathroom. He manages to avoid even looking at his brother and gets into his bed, facing the wall until Dean turns out the lights and he hears the squeak of bedsprings groaning next to him.  
  
He turns then, and lets himself look at the silhouette of Dean. Covered in blankets, and he’s pretty sure facing his way. Is this how it’s gonna be? No more speaking, no more looking in the light, everything awkward between them forever? Sam coughs back as his throat chokes. That’s worse than facing up to it, accepting it. Worse than pretty much anything.  
  
That’s the thought that does it. He throws back the sheets and gets out of bed, three steps, then he’s pulling Dean’s sheets up and getting into his bed.  
  
“Sam, what--?”  
  
“Shh.” He shuffles closer, until their knees are knocking and toes are brushing, and Sam’s just waiting for Dean to make some comment on chick-flick moments, but he doesn’t, so Sam leans forward in the dark and kisses him.  
  
Dean doesn’t return it immediately, he seems to freeze as Sam at first presses their lips together softly. Close-mouthed, chaste, because he’s scared. Really fucking scared. Hasn’t been this scared in his whole, entire life, and he feels himself shaking.  
  
Then Dean’s kissing him back. Like last night, only better; Sam can feel everything and because he knows, really knows this time, that Dean’s doing this because he wants to. He’s not drunk, he’s not making some mistakes, they’re doing this - really doing this – and Dean’s mouth is warm and his tongue is perfect as it slides between his lips.  
  
His hands cup Sam’s face and the shaking stops, the fear stops, Dean’s solid presence right here, right now, it keeps everything grounded and makes nothing else in the world matter. He makes a noise deep in his throat (which he is so not calling a moan or a whimper) and he feels Dean smiles against his lips.  
  
It cuts the kiss short, but Sam’s eyes have managed to adjust to the dark and he can see Dean more clearly. His face, his eyes, his lips that are swollen because of him, because of Sam’s own mouth, and everything’s tumbling around in his mind – all confusion and not understanding and screams of _whatthefuckareyoudoing?_ – but all he can bring himself to do is kiss Dean again, harder, then bury his face into his brother’s shoulder and sigh.  
  
::  
  
They take to the beach early both mornings, just as the sun breaks through the darkness of the sky and before anyone else has stepped foot on the sand. They swim mostly, in freezing cold water that numbs their hands and downs before they're even chest-deep. Sam more cautious until Dean swims up, dunks him under, and Sam is left spluttering and yelling after his brother.  
  
Sam's never had a summer quite like this. Without worry about Dean and Dad going off on a hunt, spending sleepless nights waiting for Bobby or Pastor Jim to come into his room and say they’re not coming back. He still worries about Dad, about the demon problems that seems to be taking longer than usual, but he calls at least every other day and Dean seems to think he’s okay, so that’s good enough for Sam.  
  
Dad’s also blissfully unaware that there was no poltergeist. Sam knows his brother hates lying, but he just keeps doing it. Sam pushes away the guilt.  
  
On their fifth day at the seaside, they spend the entire day walking to length of the beach. Far away enough from where they can hear cars or people screaming with the joy of icy water, they find themselves under a cliff face. The water’s stronger here, Sam says it’s a rip and they shouldn’t go in, but Dean still walks up to his knees and splashes while Sam wanders along the sand.  
  
“It’s freezing!” He says, jumping back. The beach is already cold as is, something he never learned from shows and movies that tried to convince him otherwise, but right here it feels like ice.  
  
“Quit being such a baby!” Dean yells back, but he gets out of the water soon after and collapses back against the rocks. Sam joins him.  
  
“Mathlete,” Dean snorts and pokes at Sam’s green shirt. “When was that? Seventh grade?”  
  
Ninth grade, actually, but he doesn't say that. “At least I’m not a walking advertisement for underage drinking.” He tugs the arm of Dean’s Jack Daniel’s shirt. Dean just shakes his head, and Sam leans over to kiss him. Dean lets him, for less than a moment, then ducks his head and stares out over the water.  
  
Sam follows his gaze, out across to where blue meets blue and you can't tell the difference between water and sky. Maybe they're the same here, Sam thinks, maybe the laws of the universe don't exist anymore.  
  
"You regret this or something?" he asks suddenly.  
  
Dean turns just enough that Sam can see the corner of his eye. "What?"  
  
"Kissing me."  
  
"You kissed me," he insists and digs his boot into the sand.  
  
"No, you..." but he trails off, because the case of who-kissed-who didn't really seem to matter. It happened, and they went with it. Until Dean seemed to want to block it from all of existence. "It doesn't have to be _bad_. I...I like it." He stares hard at the granules of shell when he says the last part.  
  
"You don't know what you want." Dean's words are quiet, a mutter, but Sam's pretty sure he gets them.  
  
"Yeah, I do." And he does. He wasn't sure until those words were out of his mouth, and now they make sense. He looks up at Dean, and he's not scared anymore.  
  
Dean looks at him and Sam stares back evenly. It's a long, long moment before Dean does anything, and Sam's holding his breath the entire wait. Dean raises his hand and it seems to suspend, like he's waiting for some sign to tell him what to do next. Sam doesn't think he's meant to be the sign, so he stays completely still.  
  
Dean's hand comes closer and brushes Sam's cheek, softly, then he lays his palm, firmer, and brings Sam's face forward. Dean's not drunk when he kisses Sam this time, not even tipsy. He kisses Sam because he  _wants_ to, and heat starts from Sam's lips and grows in his chest.  
  
Dean opens his mouth, breathes heat over Sam. It warms all of him, every part, the freezing droplets of water on his skin disappear with Dean's touch. He pulls Dean closer but can't get close enough. He doesn't understand this - any of this - the only thing his mind tells him  _Dean_  and he decides to just give into it for once.  
  
His back is pressed against the cold wall of stone but, like the sea-spray on his arms, it warms into oblivion when Dean pushes against him. Sam's hands find Dean's shirt and twist into the material, pulling it up and letting one hand touch fire. But then Dean's moving away, too quickly, his lips breaking them apart and Sam's left with a whimper in his throat as he tries to pull his brother back to him.  
  
"Sam—"  
  
"Stop it." Sam cuts him off, voice weak. "Just stop thinking, okay? We're just...here, can we forget about everything else?" Dean doesn't say anything, doesn't even move, so Sam keeps grappling for something more. "Nobody out there knows who we are — we don't have to be brothers."  
  
"We're both Tuckers," Dean says flatly.  
  
"So then we're...cousins!"  
  
Only once he says it does he realizse just how stupid the argument is, and Dean seems to agree because he's started laughing. The sound sends relief through him, because it's natural — it's  _normal_  — and with the way Dean's been acting after everything, this is all Sam ever really wanted.  
  
"It doesn't matter, though," he keeps going, "Really. I...I...I told you the truth. I want this.”  
  
He swallows hard but refuses to let his gaze waver from Dean. That’s his new plan, he decides, because Dean seems to get it if he just keeps watching, just keeps staring. Because Dean’s like Sam, and only his brother can both break him and build him back up.  
  
It takes Dean awhile to relent, for Sam to watch his eyes. He looks away, back over the beach and the ocean. When he looks back at Sam, his eyes are softer. Sam takes this as the sign, that they can do this, and he closes the space between them. Forehead to forehead and Dean's eyes too close, but Sam doesn't care. Wants all of it.  
  
"'S summer," Dean rasps, "Just us."  
  
::  
  
"Where'd you get that?" Sam thrusts his head toward the plastic camera Dean's twisting in his hand.  
  
"Gas station while you were sleeping off your big night out," Dean replies, and starts taking staggering steps that Sam knows he totally did not make.  
  
Sam throws a pillow at him, misses by a mile. Dean just smirks and jumps onto the double bed they've taken up sharing. Dean's originally, and the sides they're sleeping on still follow the age-old tradition - Dean closest to the door. Sam pressed against a wall.  
  
"Lemme see." Sam takes the camera from Dean's hand and snaps a picture of his brother, it doesn't work - roll of film hasn't been spun. "What've you taken pictures of?"  
  
"You," he replies and lays back on the bed, hands behind head and eyes still on Sam. "You really were out've it, weren't you?"  
  
"You took pictures of me sleeping?" His voice cracks on the last sound and Dean snorts. "You freak!"  
  
"Need some blackmail fuel for your 21st, kid," Dean says and he snatches the camera from Sam's hand again.  
  
"Hey!"  
  
Sam makes a snatch for the camera but Dean's too fast and he slides under Sam's arm and to the other side of the bed. Sam tries again but Dean pins him down and kisses him, and Sam forgets why he cares so much about the camera in the first place. He forgets what a camera  _is_  when Dean bites gently on his bottom lip.  
  
"Get up." Dean pokes Sam's rib and he squirms away. "Day of surf and sun to be had."  
  
Sam rolls his eyes. "You don't surf."  
  
"Can always learn. So c'mon, up n' at 'em."  
  
Sam groans by hauls himself to his feet, tugging on a shirt and following Dean from the motel room they've called home for the past five days. He can't believe that's all it's been, five single days when he feels like they've altered a lifetime. To be fair, they kind've had. He's about to shut the door when the cell phone rings.  
  
Dean dives on it. “Dad?”  
  
Sam leans against the door-frame and wants to move. They’re carved something out here and he’s not ready to leave, not yet.  
  
“Yeah, everything’s worked out,” Dean says. “You okay? ... Yup. Yeah - told you yesterday, remember? ... Sorry, sir ... Sam's fine." Dean shoots him a smile then, and his heart stops falling. " _Tomorrow?_  ... uh, I guess, long drive...Wednesday? Yeah, heaps better" Dean pauses forever. "Bye."  
  
"So?" Sam's not even sure he wants to hear, it's not hard to guess what Dad's latest set of orders are.  
  
"Wants us to meet him in Utah, says he's about to finish up a poltergeist in Salt Lake City." He scribbles this down on the motel-provided notepaper as he says it. "Told him we'd be there Wednesday."  
  
"Oh." He doesn't mean to say it, but the low sound fills the room.  
  
Dean's still got a smile on his face, but it doesn't comfort him as well as it did before. "About a ten hour drive, we'll leave tomorrow morning."  
  
"Yeah." Sam looks away and walks out the door.  
  
::  
  
They wander back to that rock face as the sun begins setting. Dean was asked to join another party - apparently he looks like "a really good time", complete with wink - but his decline was swift and Sam starred at his feet to keep from blushing.  _Knowing_  the reason makes it both better and worse.  
  
The rocks are warmer today, probably because of a day in the sun. Sam leans against them, eyes softly closing as he soaks in as much as he can of this place. Before they're forced to go back to hunting, to training, to cleaning guns day and night. He sighs and lets his eyes draw open again.  
  
"Dad says he should be finished with the poltergeist by the time we get up there," Dean tells him.  
  
Sam smiles. “Maybe he’ll give us a real beach holiday.”  
  
“Doubt it.” There’s a pause and Dean scratches the back of his head as he clears his throat. “I got something to tell ya.”  
  
“What?” Sam asks, confused.  
  
Dean looks away and picks up a stone and throws it into the distance. It misses the water, but Sam hears the  _thump_ when it connects with wet sand.  
  
“What?” he presses, shoving Dean’s arm. “Nothing you say could be that bad.”  
  
“God, you’re such a pessimist, Sammy – did I say I gotta tell you a  _bad_ thing?” He clears his throat again and Sam shoves him for the second time. “No, it’s just...well, you’re a little slower getting in the family business.”  
  
Sam stares at him. “Is that supposed to be an insult? ‘cause I know you got a gun when you were  _eight_  – already know I got a lotta catching up to do.”  
  
“Yeah, but a  _real_ hunt would be a good place to start...”  
  
He says the words so quietly that it takes a moment for them to sink in. Sam stares at him harder as he finds meaning. This wasn’t...real?  
  
“What?” he says, too loud, and it echoes from the rocks.  
  
“Hey,  _you’re_ the one that wanted the beach holiday – you expect Dad to just drop everything and let it happen?”  
  
“Was Dad  _in_ on it?” Sam wonders if his eyes could get any wider.  
  
Dean shrugs and he’s got a small smile playing on his lips. “Think he figured it out – didn’t say anything.”  
  
Sam gets up then, and ambles along to where the sand meets the water and laps softly. There he sits, softly this time, not like the drunken fall all those _(three?)_ nights ago. This time he knows everything he’s doing – everything _they’re_ doing – and tries to wrap his head around what Dean said.  
  
So Dean planned this. The beach, the holiday he’s been missing out on his whole life. Sam knows he’s pestered Dean for something like this for a long time, complaining when he goes to the new school, listening to their stories of beaches and Disneyland while he thinks back to hunting werewolves.  
  
He hears Dean come up beside him and he sits, pressing their bodies together side by side as the water flows over their toes. Dean’s finally ditched the boats.  
  
“I love you,” Sam says. He looks out over the water so he doesn’t have to watch Dean’s reaction.  
  
Surprisingly, he hears Dean let out a small laugh. “Such a girl,” he says. A pause. Then “This was a good summer, wasn’t it?”  
  
Only then does Sam let himself look up, to where Dean's eyes are on him. He sighs, peaceful. "It was the best summer of my entire life."

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: Incest (only kissing), language, underage drinking (Sam is 16, Dean is 20 - it leads to kissing).


End file.
